Impression
by PaintMeAntagonist
Summary: A young woman encounters a dark figure with no name in the distance. Oneshot. Short contemplation.


**Impression**

"_Yes, he existed in flesh and blood, although he assumed the complete appearance of a real phantom; that is to say of a spectral shade."_

_Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera_

She could tell winter had come to the countryside the moment she awoke underneath a pile of blankets. There was a crispness in the air that felt far too stiff to be autumnal. As she rose carefully she noted the fog of her breath. She tested her fingers, curling them in and out a few times, before she approached the single windowsill in her room. Frost latticed the panes. A small smile wormed its way onto her face despite her better intentions to remain indifferent. Beneath her window a group of young children played. A pair of nuns watched, rubbing their hands together to keep the warm blood flowing. For a moment, the orphanage seemed peaceful.

The illusion was shattered by a knock on her door. Apparently deciding not to wait, the intruder opened it and entered immediately. She craned her neck to view the person, offering another pleased smile. Sister Frances returned the gesture before she closed the door behind her. "You're up." She said decidedly as she approached the washbowl with a pitcher. "I don't suppose you're going to come down and help with the little ones?" She asked carefully before she poured water into the bowl and waved a hand for the younger woman to come forth.

"If I must." She said drearily before she began to scrub at her face with the slightly cool water. Her skin stung when she'd finished and she was certain it had a pink hue. Sister Frances smiled gently before she turned to gather up a set of undergarments. "I can do this myself." The younger woman protested. The nun hushed her quickly.

"After that fever I'd just as soon let you sleep all day." She responded. "If I ever find out what you were doing out in the rain I shall tell Mother Superior right away."

"I've told you. I was painting." The young woman said with slight annoyance before she allowed her companion to begin to dress her. "You saw the canvas. I don't know why you don't believe me."

"Because you're a young thing." The nun replied congenially. "You're full of life. And none too keen to take up the habit." There was a chuckle in her voice. The youngest smiled. "We all wonder aloud, 'what did we do wrong with this one? Such promise.'" They both laughed softly.

"Is it so impossible for you to imagine that I would prefer a secular life?" The younger woman twisted her hair about casually. "Painting is-"

"I know, I know." The reply was clucked. "Your life." She led the girl before a small mirror. "Put your hair up." She watched carefully as the girl did as she was told. "You could paint splendid scenes of the Lord's words." She noted.

The younger one frowned lightly as she pinned the final strands of hair up. "There's so much more to the world than that." She declared without thinking. She received an admonishing look which caused her to blush respectfully.

"That, my dear, is why I do not believe you were out painting."

In truth she had been painting. There was a small creek not far from the orphanage and it often rallied her spirits just to sit along its banks with pencils. The particular day in question she'd taken up the challenge of painting. Outside. She had heard certain French artists were doing the same these days. It had started out well enough. In fact, it had progressed pleasantly until the ominous clouds rolled in. She studied them for a minute before glancing at her own sun-filled work. Sighing, she made to put it away for the time being when something caught her eye.

Across the creek, in a long expanse of field, she spotted the lone figure mounted upon a pitch black steed. The line he traveled was precise, clean cut, almost bordering the horizon, she thought. It took a moment for her to ascertain that it was the enigmatic Frenchman who'd taken up the lands directly across from the pastures of the orphanage and nearby convent. The children all called him "Monsieur Anonyme," certainly something they had picked up from a particularly suspicious teacher. He had been there only a year and sightings of him were few and far between. He had not made himself known to his neighbors. For this, she could hardly fault him. Loud, often unruly children and shrewd, suspicious nuns. She'd be hard pressed to intrude upon them if she had been a stranger. Still, she had thought as she watched him dismount and stare off into the distance, it was a shame he did not have a proper name.

Inspiration had struck too quick for her to recall the approaching storm. She worked in a frenzied state, adding his lone, black-clad character to the vastness of the landscape. His figure was rough and unclear, barely contained within the softened contours of his form. In a way, Monsieur Anonyme was almost ephemeral in the space in which he stood. Yet it was he who made this dreary familiarity special. The horizon of soft hills and grass, the edge of the stream along the bottom of the canvas, these meant very little to her. What mattered was that figure. Standing so stark, so alone, and only for a moment. Transitory.

When she looked up from her work she noted the first specks of rain falling upon her white sleeves. Monsieur Anonyme had gone. His figure was just visible as he led his mount further along the horizontal line he traveled on foot. Even then he was a mere wavering speck on the grey-green scene. She watched until she could see no more of him. Then she'd turned and made a slow journey back, not bothering with worry over the quickening downpour. By the time she'd returned to the orphanage she was soaked. Sister Frances had rushed her inside. The canvas was pried away from her, taken from its safe hiding place among her skirts. It was damp. She could see this but it appeared to be in otherwise good condition. This, she had assured, her watchers, was what really mattered. Even now they could look upon the painting as it sat propped against the hand-crafted easel in her bedroom.

She turned to Sister Frances. The two stared at one another for some time before she rose from the mirror and scooped up the canvas in question. She cradled it carefully. "I was painting." She insisted. "But perhaps I got away from myself." The nun nodded with an endearing smile.

"Daydreams will do that."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This is very brief snippet I thought up whilst listening to certain melancholic songs. Namelessness and mystery are intended! **


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